


Interview with a Chosen Man

by moth2fic



Category: Sharpe
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-20
Updated: 2010-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-11 04:29:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moth2fic/pseuds/moth2fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick Harper answers questions put by a reporter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interview with a Chosen Man

**Author's Note:**

> I am grateful to Bernard Cornwell and Carlton TV for producing such splendid characters. I am just playing with them.
> 
> This interview is a compilation of my writings in a muse journal (now closed) used for role play.

_So, Sergeant Harper, can you give me a brief summary of how you got where you are today?_

Well now, to be sure. I was born in Ireland, in 1778 it was, to a poor but honest family as they say. It might surprise you today but once I was a slip of a lad back in the auld country. One of nine or ten - you could lose count if you weren't quick - all fresh-faced and well set up and full of the devil himself if our mother was to be believed. We led her a merry dance and then we grew till we were eating her out of house and home and needed to make shift for ourselves. Our father was no use to her or to us at all. It was the whiskey, you see.

To get to the point, because you did say 'brief', I took myself to England. I knew the streets weren't paved with gold but I thought I'd have a chance of a job in the big smoke they call their capital. At first I scraped a living shining shoes and carrying links. I spent a sen'night as a footman but I lost my place by being too free in my manner with the young ladies of the establishment.

Then one night in a tavern I drank too much. I wasn't drunk, mind you, just relaxed and not caring much what became of me. And that's how I ended up taking the King's shilling as the saying goes. They kitted me out with a uniform of sorts and gave me some so-called training I'd be ashamed to remember. Then they shipped me and new brothers in arms out to Portugal under Wellington, to face Napoleon and the French.

The King's shilling was supposed to be a regular gift and when it failed to appear for a while, so that we began to wonder where our next meal was coming from, I and s few others took to our heels to make our way as private gentlemen, or brigands if you prefer, back to our point of origin.

The story of how Richard Sharpe caught us and shepherded us back into the fold is sufficiently documented elsewhere. I worshipped him from the get-go, even before I'd tried to escape, been caught again, threatened with hanging and then given the opportunity to prove myself.

I did a favour for Richard Sharpe which turned out to be a favour to myself, and I joined his Chosen Men - Sharpe's Rifles. Sharpe's now a major and my major concern, although I have a beautiful Spanish wife and a baby son (the apple of my eye),both of them intrepid camp followers.

A proper officer, made up from the ranks, is Richard and still keenly conscious of the needs of his men. His Chosen Men, riflemen all. He doesn't give a tinker's curse for the namby-pamby fops of officers from the so called gentry. He cares about justice and patriotism and straight shooting. And I care about him. I don't care who knows it.

He chose me as his sergeant and I swore by all the saints I'd never let him down. A hard promise to keep and sometimes I don't manage it. But the trying is everything.

Since I joined Sharpe we've advanced the lines into Spain and still the Frenchies keep thinking they'll defeat the British army under the greatest commander we've ever known. Wellington. You can stuff Napoleon. I would if I had the chance - with horsehair or gunpowder, whichever came to hand. Our chief is a man to be revered. He's fond of Richard in his own way. Richard saved his life one day, which is why he's now an officer, if not always a gentleman.

And me? I'm his sergeant first and foremost. Patrick Harper, at your service - and his.

_Can you tell us anything about old Irish legends, Patrick, or about monsters and suchlike? Something of what you learnt growing up there. I believe Ireland is full of stories._

Well, back in the auld country we had our share of monstrous beings. Banshees and the like. Leprechauns. And I don't know what else. The giants who built the Causeway must have been Irish to a man. Because it doesn't go anywhere that mortal eye can see. There are as many stories as there are Irishmen.

My granddaddy, I was told, chased a stag across the Burren. It led him a dance, growing as it ran until its antlers touched the clouds. Its footprints filled with rain. Its dung formed peatbogs. Padraig niver stopped for nothing. They ended at the Cliffs of Moher and a wild sea. He thought to have the stag but it grinned a feral grin and leapt out into the waves. He swore by Mary, Joseph, Jasus, and the Fair Folk too (just in case), that it was seen swimming strongly towards America. But remember, we're Irish and my grandaddy was always said to be a broth of a boy.

But the good people and the phantoms don't worry me or frighten me. It's the monsters out here in their Frenchie uniforms with their Frenchie loyalties and their Frenchie lingo that scare the living daylights out of me. Them and their very own monster, Napoleon.

_Can you tell our readers, Patrick, from your experiences in the Peninsula, how you find any comfort when at war?_

There's the comfort obtained from my wife (and her cooking) and my child.  
There's the comfort of being with my friends.  
There's the comfort of knowing my ability and skill.  
There's the comfort of an old blanket I carry everywhere - soft and warm. It's one of the things I brought from Ireland. I won't let my wife wash it - even the smell contributes to its character. No wonder some people call blankets comforters.  
Then of course there's the comfort of being with Richard . . .I think that's what you were after, but I'll let you guess at the details.

_Tell us what one thing you'd do if you could._

Well, to be honest with you, I'd take Richard out of harm's way, wrap him in love and keep him safe, with myself as his protector. It's as well I can't. I doubt if he'd like to be mollycoddled and for sure there'd be no promotion in it. So maybe my efforts on his behalf would turn sour but a man can't help wishing.

I failed him once. I couldn't save her, you see.

I was too busy watching his back, I suppose. So we were both in the village. Feeling a sense of guarded triumph. And that shit knew exactly how to make the world lurch to a standstill. He hated Richard. A terrible hatred, fuelled by our major's promotion and his own inadequacy. He'd tried so often. Like the time he tried to rape her after the siege and we arrived in the nick of time. He'd threatened my wife, too. And now he left us and we didn't think. Didn't know or suspect, but should have.

She was still alive when we reached her and I heard her begging Richard to let her go. Said he'd never imprisoned her and it was time for her to leave. Lost track after that. My eyes were swimming and my ears were full of fog and cannon roar.

Holy mother of god, have mercy on me. I'd have given him the sun, moon and stars. And counted myself rich in the loss. I'd have died for him. Instead, I had to watch his Teresa die, and know that one of us could have thought, and doubled back, and saved her.

_Do you see much of Major Sharpe in your off duty hours?_

Much? No, but I treasure the times we're together. Like last night.

I woke up to find the tent stifling. My wife was fast asleep and so was the child. So rather than toss and turn and wake the pair of them, I rose and went outside for a breath of air.

He was out there, too. Walking up and down the lines, checking the security of the tents, seeing that no rifles were left outside for the corruptions of theft or rain. Thinking, probably, about the next mission, and the next and the next. About the men in his charge. About us.

The moon was shining on his hair. He has that deceptive fair hair that can look ordinary by day. By the light of the moon it made a halo round his head and I must have gasped. It's not that I think him a saint, far from it, but I do see him as sent to us by God.

He heard me gasp and turned. He wasn't surprised. He came towards me, his feet quiet on the damp grass, and smiled that crooked endearing smile. The one that turned him into an angel by moonlight.

_What's your greatest fear for yourself?_

I think the worst thing would be to fall foul of one of the bands of brigands that look to the French spies for coin and instruction. To be tortured for knowledge of my major and his Chosen Men. And to be unable, at the end, to withstand the pain.

_What is your weapon of choice_

You needed to ask this of one of the Chosen Men? Of course, I'm supposing you have this little list of questions and you ask everyone... My rifle, of course, cleaned and prepared by me, with good ammunition and a worthwhile target in front of me!

Cannon now. They're a different matter. You have to watch out for cannon, so you do.

We had a tragedy in our midst this week. Not an unusual one, I'm afraid, but we all knew the lad. Brendan, his name was, an Irishman like me.

The cannon are never to be trusted. They're so 'flighty' we give them all female names. Bertha and Martha and Anna. This one was Marion. She was old, and I think they forgot how the metal ages and changes. An old cannon is even less trustworthy than a youngster.

So Brendan was ready to fire. He looked so proud in his uniform. His mammy would have loved to have seen him at that moment.

The French were bearing down on us and Sharpe had us Chosen Men off to the side. Hopefully, we were half hidden by a clump of olive trees.

The other cannon, Sally, I think it was, roared. Marion should have roared too. Instead, she cracked and broke into shards. They filled the air with their darkness. It all seemed to happen in slow motion. And the whumph died away like a roll of thunder in the hills.

The French ran. They probably knew what had happened but they couldn't help themselves, you see. We froze. We couldn't help ourselves, either. And when the air cleared, there was no more Marion. And no more Brendan.

We buried what we could find and the colonel of his regiment sent a letter of condolence to his family. The lads came to the major to write a letter that would give some sympathy as well as the cold military words. Richard wrote it but it took him some time and he sighed a lot. We all signed it or made our marks.

It happens too often. And as I say, it's harder when you know the lad concerned. Thank goodness our rifles are fine. The old kind used to explode, but the modern ones are pretty safe. I hope. Give me a rifle any time.

 

_What losses are considered acceptable in Wellington's army?_

What losses would Wellington consider acceptable? A regiment or two? I suppose it would depend what he gained. I sometimes suspect he'd sacrifice the entire army if he could chase Boney into the sea.

Sharpe? He'd feel the loss of any chosen man keenly, so he would. He'd be less concerned about the red-coated toy soldiers whose snooty young officers look down on him from their aristocratic backgrounds.

Myself? Well to be sure, I'd consider the world well lost if Richard was saved. For me? No, just saved - to grace the world with his style and beauty.

_Have there been any causes for celebration recently?_

It seems they're celebratin' Trafalgar Day on 21st October. It's all very well and good that Nelson fought a good fight, but why does the navy get all the glamour and the lovin', from Lady Hamilton down? They won at sea, but they didn't solve the matter once and for all. We're pushing Boney back out of the peninsula still, and have been doin' for a few years now. But nobody cares. The news isn't 'sexy' enough. Nobody celebrates our small victories - but those are what will win the war in the end.And as for Nelson, our Wellington would make three of him. And my Major would make the lot of them look like leprechauns.

_Let's turn to happier questions. What are your favourite food and drink?_

I used to think whiskey was the best drink in the world - the Irish, mind you, not the Scotch kind - but lately I've come to appreciate good rum, and Richard has been introducing me to wine.  
Alcohol has to be my favourite drink, anyway. It soothes care, brings sleep, and gives the world a gentle glow. Now combine that with a well-cooked chicken, its flesh falling off the bones and its skin crisp and golden as ripe corn - and you'll see before you a happy man. Mind you, a pigeon is not to be sneezed at, neither.

_I have a strange question for you, Patrick. As you might suspect, it's from my list. Can you tell us ten things you like that fall from the sky?_

List ten things I like that fall out of the sky? Let's see... Well, I can make it ten if they've only to fall. Regardless of where they started from.

1\. Rain. In Ireland when it rains we call it a nice soft day.  
The rain is what makes it the emerald isle.

2\. Snow. You can't chase Frenchies when it snows in the Picos. So you can  
just settle down in camp and enjoy the crack and the firelight.

3\. Moonlight. Especially when it falls on the major's face.

4\. Bullets. Mind you, only when they fall on the French.

5\. Conkers. We used to play with them every autumn. The ones boiled in  
vinegar were supposed to beat the rest, but it was a kind of  
cheating and you had to confess it before mass.

6\. Sunshine. And warmth and summer and crops growing and vines ripening.

7\. Dead pigeons. We shoot them for the pot and they're a welcome  
addition to the menu.

8\. Hail. When it clatters on the rocks and hides the sound of our  
footsteps and the click as we ready our rifles.

9\. The sound of geese flying overhead. Speaks for itself, to be sure.

10.My major's smile. And surely that speaks for itself, too.

 

_It's been good talking to you, Patrick. Good luck to you, and to your Major._

It's welcome you are to my thoughts. I'll bid you good day, now, and a safe journey home. When you're over the hills and a great way off, spare a thought for us Chosen Men, will you now?


End file.
